Dead Static
by underatomicskies
Summary: Stan finds himself at Ford's weird cabin in the woods with no car and no recollection of how he got there. His day couldn't possibly get any stranger than this, right? (Posted on A03)
1. Chapter 1

Stan Pines always knew he would die young.

It wasn't exactly uncommon when someone lived the lifestyle that he did. Living on the streets, living fast— that kind of living never did tend to last. Never did tend to be kind either.

Hell, there was already plenty of times where he'd escaped with his life just by pure dumb luck. He'd lost count of the amount of times he thought he was as good as gone yet he always seemed to somehow make it out ok, more or less. Maybe a few wounds to patch up, but still whole and breathing.

The thing is, he always thought he'd go out fighting. Stan Pines wasn't a man to lay back and take a beating. He always fought back with tooth and nail, or anything else he could find to fight with.

He never thought he'd go quietly.

What was the saying he'd heard once? This was how the world ends. Not with a bang but with a whimper.

The last thing he recalled was getting the postcard from his brother and packing up what few belongings he had to his name into his car before setting out for what he knew would be a long trip.

The address he had been given had been in some sleepy town in Oregon called Gravity Falls. He'd had a hell of a time getting directions to the town. It wasn't on any maps, and no one seemed to have even heard of it. For all he knew, the place didn't actually exist.

More or less, he did get some directions after talking to enough gas station attendees. He remembered driving past the large sign that welcomed him to the town, yet nothing about it had seemed welcoming.

Of course it had to be snowing. Stan hated the winter. The cold had a way for settling deep within his bones that not even all of the clothing he owned (which really wasn't a lot) could keep out.

Not to mention he simply couldn't afford to stay in a motel most of the time, and sleeping in his car with the heat on was out of the question as well.

There was also something off about this town. Stan couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, but when he had driven past the sign, he couldn't ignore the weird feeling that slithered up his spine.

Over the years, he had learned to trust his gut. If it weren't for the fact that his brother had asked for him to come, he would have turned around and driven out of town.

To be fair, it wasn't like he had been driving in Gravity Falls long before his memory became fuzzy. He tried to recall any details, anything at all, but he couldn't quite get past the holes in his memory.

Oddly enough, he found himself standing outside of a strange, creepy looking cabin. Several windows were boarded up and there were signs warning against trespassers. The Stanleymobile was nowhere in sight and oddly enough, the cold didn't seem to bite at him despite only wearing a thin, worn jacket.

The house didn't look at all inviting, yet something in his gut pulled him forwards. Even stranger yet, despite not seeing a number to the house or even a street sign, he somehow knew this was Ford's house.

With a shrug, Stan approached the house. His resolve shrank as he reached the door.

"You haven't seen your brother in over ten years." Stan murmured to himself, taking a breath to steel his resolve, "It's okay. He's family. He won't bite."

He raised his fist to knock on the door. Instead of knocking, as he had intended, his hand went through the door.

"What the—"

He tried again. His fist went through the wood again, making no sound.

He pulled his hand back and examined it before glancing back to the door.

Third time was a charm... right?

He knocked with such force that he stumbled, falling halfway through the door. With a grunt, he pulled himself through and found himself within the cabin.

He glanced back to the door, still closed, and stared. His thoughts screeched to a halt, unable to come up with an explanation as to why he just phased through a door.

If this really is Stanford's house, Ma did say Ford was studying anomalies. Leave it to Ford to have some weird door.

He'd also been driving for nearly two days with only a few hours of sleep.

Yeah, that sounded right. Chalking it up to that, Stan turned his attention back to the room around him. The house was dark, and cluttered with all sorts of important looking science-y things that looked more science fiction than nonfiction.

"Ford?" He called loudly, "Uh, I think something's up with your door."

He waited for his brother's response, but got none.

Maybe his brother was out of the house at the moment. Usually people stocked up their food supplies before a big snowstorm, but Ford did have a tendency to get wrapped up in his work and forget that kind of thing.

At least he had back in high school.

Stan was going to ignore the treacherous voice in his head that reminded him that over a decade had passed since he'd last seen or heard from his twin. Ford could be totally different than what he remembered.

The house was silent as he hesitantly wandered further in. Notes and specimens were scattered all throughout the room, much like the first room.

The nosy part of Stan wanted to stop and look. Apart from the small snippets his mother told him over the phone, he knew nothing of the life his twin was living. The temptation to see what his twin was up to was too strong.

Leaning over a desk, he glanced at the papers and books scattered across the surface. Ford's handwriting was still recognizable, to Stan's satisfaction. The numerous sheets of meticulous notes were also recognizable, and it was good to know that some things didn't change.

The sheet he had picked up was full of some sort of equations that made no sense to Stan so he quickly put it down.

Turning his back to the table, Stan made his way to the hallway.

"Ford?" He called again as he traveled deeper into the house, "I got your postcard."

There was a sound from a room further down the hall.

Stan laughed awkwardly as he slowly approached the room, "Stanford? You didn't call me all the way out to your creepy cabin in the woods just to kill me, did ya?"

He peeked around the corner into the room he heard the noise originate from. A man stood with his back to him, urgently flipping through notes and textbooks strewn across a desk.

"Ford?" Stan asked again, a twinge of concern bleeding through his voice. Ford's movements were frantic. He was muttering under his breath, his words too low for Stan to hear what he was saying.

Ford still hadn't responded to him yet Stan found that any anger from being ignored that rose within him tapered away as soon as it came.

"Hey," his voice was more gentle as she spoke again. With slow, purposeful steps, he stepped into the room and approached his twin, "You okay, bro?"

Ford's movements didn't falter, even as Stan stood just arms length away behind him. Swallowing thickly, Stan reached out to put his hand on his twins shoulder— a gesture they had shared numerous times growing up.

Only his hand phased through his twin's shoulder, just as it had the front door.

Ford didn't even react; it was as if he wasn't even there, but he was standing right behind him! Stan was talking to him!

Stan's jaw dropped as he tried to comprehend what was happening. He lifted his hand in front of his face, staring at it. Scrutinizing it in detail, yet all he saw was a normal hand.

Hesitantly, he tried touching Ford with his other hand, but again, his hand phased through.

Panic was slowly creeping up the back of his throat.

"Ford!" He spoke again, voice steadily rising, "Stanford, please! What's— what the hells happening?"

Ford finally turned around, and for a moment, relief flooded through Stan.

"Oh thank God! This is a trick, isn't it? One of your weird science-y things, right? Boy, you really had m—"

Stan was cut off as Ford stepped right through him. Distantly, he could hear Ford's footsteps fade as he walked out of the room and down the hall, but he could barely think beyond what just happened.

He stood frozen to the spot, his breaths steadily increasing in his panic.

What the hell was happening to him? First he had no idea how he even got to Ford's house, then he had phased through the door. Ford hadn't even heard him when he called his name, and now even his own twin was walking through him as if he wasn't there. As if he was a—

A ghost.

The realization finally hit, causing Stan to stiffen.

With renewed desperation, he tried searching back in his memories for anything beyond driving past the sign welcoming him to Gravity Falls. His memories were still shrouded just out of reach, but the distant echoing of the screech of car tires on a snow covered black top echoed in the back of his head.

Just that recollection in itself was jarring enough to cause him to stagger to a nearby chair and sink against it. With some grace of luck, he didn't phase through that.

Dead.

He really was dead.

His brain bulked at the thought, not allowing itself to really accept what he knew, deep down, must be true.

He couldn't be dead. Sure, he had a few close calls over the years, but to die just miles down the road from his twin who had asked to see him seemed crueler than dying in the locked trunk of a car abandoned in a desert.

An angry yell tore through his throat as he gripped at his mullet. This wasn't fair! All he had ever wanted for ten long years was to hear from his brother, to get a chance to make up for his mistakes and finally get to be brothers again.

He'd finally had an opportunity to do just that. Ford had finally wanted to talk to him and had sent him a post card to come see him. It was the chance he had been waiting for for so long. He should have figured he'd never get that chance.

Good things didn't happen to Stan Pines.

He knew this as a fact. If a good thing ever did happen to him, it just meant he had further to fall when he inevitably hit rock bottom again.

It was so unfair to be so close to his brother, just a hair's width away from the twin he had missed for ten long years, yet not be able to talk to him.

Stanford.

Oh right. Ford had finally contacted him after ten long years. He'd be waiting for Stan to arrive, not knowing that he'd never come.

He'd probably think that Stan ignored him. It wasn't like Stan had thought to call and tell him he was coming, despite having his number.

Stan also doubted that whoever found his body would be able to contact his family. He didn't even know if he had an ID with his actual name on it, rather than one of the many aliases he used. Not to mention, he didn't have anyone in his family registered to receive a call if something happened to him.

The best chance he had was that whoever found him would recognize that he looked nearly identical to Ford (if Ford had a mullet).

Assuming that his face was still recognizable.

Stan shivered at the thought.

"Ok, think Stan." He mumbled to himself, "So you're dead and somehow at Ford's house. He'll know what to do; you just have to find a way to talk to him."

The only downside was he knew nothing about ghosts. Or nothing practical, really. Sure, he'd seen a lot of ghost movies growing up. What did they always do in movies?

Looking around the room, he spotted a blanket folded over a couch. Maybe if he could throw that over himself, Ford would be able to see his form.

Hurrying over to the couch, he reached for the blanket. Instead of being able to grasp the fabric, his hands phased through, eliciting a growl of frustration. He tried again, and got the same effect.

"Aw, come on!" He took a swing at the blanket, and though his fist phased through, he could have sworn he saw the blanket move slightly, as if a breeze had ruffled the fabric.

If that was all he could do, that wouldn't exactly help him.

Frustration rising in his throat, he stormed after Ford instead. He could hear his twin rifling through some of his papers in the front room, and followed the sound.

"Ford!" He yelled, as loud and as bellowing as he could, "Earth to Stanford! Hello! I'm right here!"

He positioned himself through the desk that Ford was bent over, waving his arms in Ford's face frantically and making as much noise as he possibly could.

"Stanford, come on! I'm right in front of you! You've got to see me!" Stan yelled, a desperate edge to his voice.

Being this close to his brother, he could see how much time had changed him. He had grown wider since he'd last seen him, his broad chest and shoulders filling out that trench coat he was wearing. His hair was a rumpled mess and his eyes were bloodshot as they desperately searched the papers on the desk.

"Come on, it's got to be here." Ford muttered to himself, taking a six fingered hand through his messy hair, only causing it to stick up even further.

Yeesh, just what happened to his brother? He looked like Ma after her tenth cup of coffee.

Ford's eyes suddenly lit up, "Aha!" He yelled, reaching a hand through Stan (causing his twin to stumble back a step) and pulling his hand back with a paper in his gasp.

Turning his back to Stan, he paced the length of the floor as he scrutinized the papers contents, muttering to himself.

"Hey Ford." Stan spoke again, voice somewhat dropping as he tentatively approached his frantic twin, "What's going on? You're actin' pretty weird, bro."

He got no response from his twin. Of course he wouldn't. Ford hadn't even heard him when he was yelling. It was foolish to think he could hear him now, but somehow Stan found it somewhat comforting to talk to his twin after all this time, even if he didn't hear a word he said.

"Useless!" Ford spat as he threw the paper to the floor. Hands gripped at his hair desperately. Stan took a step towards his twin, a hand raised to rest on his shoulder, desperately wanting to comfort him. At the last minute, his hand stilled.

He didn't think he could take watching his hand phase through his brother. Not when he wanted to comfort him so badly.

"Calm down, Stanford." His brother coached himself, "Focus on your intellect."

Stan couldn't help but snort at that comment. Of course Ford would focus on that.

"Stanley will be here soon. He'll be able to help; you just have to wait until then." Ford said, finally making his way to a desk. He sank his weight onto the surface and hunched in on himself, looking more desperate and helpless then Stan ever remembered seeing him.

Stan felt as though a knife had been twisted into his heart. His brother needed his help. Desperately. Whatever was going on had him more wound up and stressed than anything he had memory of, and yet after all these years, his twin was counting on him to come and help.

Yet Ford had no idea that Stan wouldn't be coming. Not really, anyways. Stan was here, yet he never felt more useless in his life. He couldn't do anything to help his twin in this state, probably because Stan did something stupid like run his car off the road and get himself killed.

Heaving a sigh, Stan crossed to where Ford was sitting on the desk, curled in on himself. With some hesitation, he sat down beside his twin. He didn't have the heart to try to touch his twin again, knowing that his hand would just pass through.

So he settled to sit shoulder to shoulder with his twin. Just that simple action reminded him of nights long passed when he and Ford used to sit on the swing set by the beach, talking about anything and everything. He hoped the gesture would do something to comfort his twin, but even if not, it at least gave him some comfort to be so close to his twin.

He could at least pretend that things were as they used to be. Even if just for a moment before the image was shattered by reality.

"I'm sorry, Stanford," he said, hating the way his voice quivered with emotion, "I'm not coming. But I'll find a way to help you. I promise."

He looked up. Ahead of him was the front door he had entered through. He hadn't noticed before, but there was a loaded crossbow propped up by the side of the door. The sight of it drew another helpless sigh from him.

He didn't know what happened to make Ford feel the need to keep a weapon by the door, but it was a sentiment that Stan could understand seeing as he always kept a bat or his brass knuckles nearby.

"Whatever's got you so worked up, we'll figure it out." He said, his voice feeling heavy in the deafening silence, "I won't be leaving; it's us against the world. Always has been, always will be."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you to those of you who let me know the last chapter got messed up. It's been years since I've posted to this site, but hopefully that's fixed now!

* * *

Stan hadn't anticipated that being a ghost would be so boring.

Following Ford around when he couldn't interact with him at all could only entertain him for so long. At some point, he decided that if he wanted to make good on his promise to Ford, he'd have to figure out his new capabilities.

That being said, it was easier said than done. So far he knew he could phase through things, and he accidentally ruffled the blanket but that wouldn't exactly do him any good.

Curiously, he didn't phase through objects when he sat on them. He couldn't quite figure out why that was, but he wasn't going to question it. He wouldn't have been thrilled at the idea of having to stand for the rest of eternity.

Ford had eventually wandered off to another part of the house, leaving Stan in the front room by himself. He tried picking up a pen sitting a few feet away from it but his hand phased through it, as he had expected.

Maybe if he tried focusing more on his hand, he could touch it. He stared intently at his fingertips, concentrating on picking up the pen as he reached out again.

Yet again, his hand passed through.

He knew he had no need to breathe anymore, but the motion came out of habit as he let out a short exhale in frustration.

He didn't have time to burn. Technically, he supposed he technically was already out of time. But for some reason, he was still here, existing even if it was as a mere shadow of his living self.

Ford needed him. That much was obvious. He was counting on him to help him with whatever had him looking so ragged and worn down.

Being dead wasn't going to stop Stan from helping his twin if he needed him.

Channeling his thoughts back to the task at hand, he focused on his hand yet again. As his hand hovered above the pen, he concentrated on his fingers, imagining what it felt like to be solid and tangible, what it felt like to curl his fingers around the pen and move it.

His concentration didn't waver as he reached for the pen. To his shock, he felt the smooth surface of the pen under his finger tips, but in his excitement, his concentration broke and his hand passed through yet again.

However, his excitement couldn't be dampened. He had actually managed to touch it!

With a renewed vigor, he tried again. His concentration was more schooled this time, not wavering even as he touched the pen yet again.

Keeping his breath steady, he curled his finger around the pen and lifted it from the desk.

Though the pen should have weighed next to nothing, the action sapped him of his strength. With a gasp, the pen fell to the desk as it phased through his hand.

Similarly to breathing, he knew he didn't have a physical body anymore, let alone a heart or blood, but he could feel his heart pumping in his chest like a phantom memory.

Yeesh, he didn't even feel this tired at the end of a long day.

Yet his exhaustion didn't deter his excitement. At least now he knew what he had to do if he wanted to move an object. Unfortunately, he also knew that he was probably only limited to small objects at occasional intervals.

However, there were few things he knew about his new life (or maybe afterlife was more appropriate), that even knowing what his limitations were was a good thing.

At least now he could try to move things to let Ford know he was here.

Curiously, he wondered if he'd be able to move heavier objects or move objects more frequently if he practiced.

The idea seemed reasonable at least.

Satisfied with this new progression, Stan decided it was about time he checked up on Ford.

He wandered off in the direction he saw Ford go to when he left the front entry room. He passed through several rooms which showed no sign of his brother amongst all of the science-y clutter.

Scratching his head, he wondered if Ford had walked past him without him noticing. The rooms didn't lead to any other rooms, apart from what looked like storage closets or back outside.

Peeking through a window at the storm still raging outside, he hoped his brother hadn't left.

Then again, it wasn't like Ford was acting himself. His twin was the dumbest genius he knew, so it shouldn't surprise him too much if he went out in a snowstorm.

He reached for the doorknob, letting out a small grunt as his hand passed through. Until he got his strength back and practiced being able to manipulate his surroundings, he was going to have to remember to phase through things.

Old habits died hard, he supposed.

Passing through the door, he found himself standing on another small porch. Snow covered where he assumed steps would be, and to his satisfaction, he found that there were no footprints in the snow.

So at least Ford hadn't been dumb enough to go outside.

That still meant that he had no idea where Ford had gone off too.

Scratching his head in thought, he distantly realized that he couldn't feel the cold still. He really should have questioned why he hadn't felt the cold when he had been standing in the middle of the storm when he had been freezing in his car on the way here.

If it had been Ford in his position, he was sure his twin would have realized he was dead sooner. He was the smart twin for a reason, after all.

Shoving down his self deprecating thoughts, a new idea popped in his head.

If he could leave footprints in the snow, maybe he could spell out a message for Ford.

As he stepped off the porch, he heard no familiar crunching of snow beneath his feet. Glancing down, he found that his feet (huh, how hadn't he realized that he could see through his feet until now) stood in the snow, yet left no tracks.

Great. There goes another idea.

"God dammit!" Stan yelled, kicking and stomping his feet in the snow.

He glared up at the pale sky, "I bet this is real funny to you, huh?"

Sure, he might have been raised Jewish, but somewhere along the road in his travels, he had lost his faith.

Now he was stuck in limbo, yet he was convinced maybe this was his own personal hell. He was just as invisible to Ford as he had been in life. Even his afterlife was some cruel joke.

Glancing back to the house, he knew he should go back in and look for Ford. Yet the idea of going back into the house didn't appeal to him at all, not when even a cockroach could see or hear him let alone his brother.

With a sharp turn of his head, he stomped off through the snow. He didn't know what direction his car might be in, but in a town as small as Gravity Falls, he could eventually find it. Then maybe he'd at least get some sort of answers.

He hadn't even made it towards the edge of the clearing the house stood in when he started to feel something pulling him back, as if a tether was yanking him back towards the house.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed against it. In one moment, he was trudging his way through the snow covered yard, but in the next, he found himself standing back on the porch.

"What the—!"

With renewed determination, he leaped off the porch and took off running across the yard.

Yet again, he only got so far before he found himself back on the porch.

"Aw, come on!" He yelled, kicking at one of the wooden support beams of the porch.

So he was stuck to the house it seemed. Or maybe it was Ford himself. Even in death, he was still chained to his brother.

"Fine. Okay. So you're stuck here." Stan mumbled to himself, pacing the short distance of the porch, "This ain't so bad. You can keep an eye on Ford; it's not like he's going to be leavin' anytime soon."

No matter how much he tried to tell himself that this was fine, that he was fine, he knew it wasn't true.

He felt like it truly hasn't sunk in that he's dead. It still feels like he's going to wake up in his car and this will have all been just a terrible dream.

But he somehow knew it wasn't a dream. He'd had plenty of dreams involving Ford. On the best days, he'd dream of old memories, or of the two of them making up and becoming brothers again.

His worst dreams, however, were the ones where Ford would look at him with a burning disappointment. His glasses hid his eyes behind a glare, similarly to the way his fathers had.

"You're pathetic," Ford would spit out at him, "You really thought I'd ever want you back in my life after you messed it up? Why would I want some dumb, useless twin who'd only ever pull me down? I'm better off without you."

Stan shivered at the thought.

At least in his dreams, Ford acknowledged him. Being ignored was its own kind of hell.

He supposed he should be used to it. People tended to want to forget that people like him existed. Hell, his own family probably pretended he didn't exist.

For the first time, he realized that there would be no one to mourn him now that he was dead. His body would probably be some nameless John Doe thrown in a potter's field to rot.

He wondered if he'd even be lucky to get a tombstone.

A deep sigh escaped his lips. His shoulders shrank in on himself as he turned and let himself pass through the door back into the shack.

He had half a mind to curl up on the couch he had seen earlier. He doubted he could sleep anymore, but maybe he could find some sort of comfort in laying down.

He started making his way to the doorway when one of the closet doors against the walls opened with a loud creak.

With a jump, Stan turned to watch a frenzied Ford exiting the door with a stash of messy papers and notebooks piled in his arms. Before the door was shut and locked behind him, Stan caught a glimpse of a staircase descending downstairs.

Huh, he hadn't thought this place would have a basement.

Ford hurried through the doorway and disappeared from his sight. He probably should follow after him, but something was tugging his attention back to the door, similar to the force that had kept him from leaving the shack.

Glancing in the direction Ford had just dashed off too, Stan slowly approached the door. It really didn't seem like anything special apart from having a keypad to enter a code into.

Luckily for him, locked doors meant even less in death then they had when he was alive.

Passing through the door, he found himself standing atop of a flight of stairs descending further into the house.

With some hesitation, he made his way down the stairs until he came to an elevator.

With a sigh, he pinched his nose, "Never could do things the normal way, can ya Sixer?"

Once again, he phased through the door until he was standing in the elevator. Another keypad was installed into the control panel, temporarily stalling Stan's descent. According to the controls, there were three floors.

"Yeesh, talk about overkill."

Well, if he could phase through doors, he didn't see why floors would be a problem.

It took more conscious thought than going through a door, it seemed. With a bit of concentration, Stan slowly started to sink through the floor into the elevator shaft.

Packed earth passed him in his descent until he finally reached the bottom. With some amusement, he realized he could float rather than need to walk.

So being dead at least had some perks.

Floating through the elevator door, he entered into a control room that looked like it was straight out of NASA.

Monitors lining the sides of the room blinked at him in the darkness, providing him with some minuscule amount of light (though it didn't help to make the place look any less creepy).

He gave a low whistle as he slowly floated through the room, feeling a bit unnerved that all of this belonged to Ford.

It looked more like a mad scientist's lair than any lab he had ever seen.

But who was he kidding? Apart from movies, he'd never seen an actual lab.

There was a strange feeling nagging at him, some force still drawing him forward through a door at the opposite end of the room.

What was Ford hiding so far beneath his house?

As he neared the door, he noticed that there was a large window above what looked to be a control panel, but the room on the other side was too dark for him to make out what was on the other side.

Part of him didn't want to find out. Whatever was on the other side of the wall gave him a bad feeling.

There was never a good reason to have three levels hidden in the basement. Not to mention locked behind at least two keypads. Whatever Ford had down here, he was probably hiding it for a good reason.

All the more reason that Stan needed to find out.

Something had Ford real messed up, desperate enough to call on his fuck up of a twin brother whom he hadn't talked to in a decade to ask for his help.

Stan had made a promise to Ford, and Stan might not always be a man of his word, but when it came to his brother, he'd make good on his promise.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he passed through the door into the other room.

Without all of the flashing lights from the monitors, the room was significantly darker than the previous one.

Even as a ghost, it seemed his eyes needed to adjust to the darkness.

Slowly, he began to make out the shapes of the walls, if they really could be called that. Bare rock surrounded him, stretching high into the ceiling. Wires and poles climbed up the rock face, leading to a large upside down triangular structure on the opposite end of the door.

Stan's jaw dropped at the sheer size of the structure. He'd traveled all around the world but he'd never seen anything like this before.

"There's nothing about this I understand."

Even though the machine appeared to be off, Stan could feel an intense amount of energy and power crackling from the dormant structure.

Despite knowing no one could see him, even if there was anyone else down in the basement, he could feel eyes burning into his back.

A prickling feeling traveled up the back of his neck and he forced himself to avert his eyes from the machine. Nothing about this was right. It was no wonder Ford was so worked up. Stan was unsettled just at the mere sight of the machine; he couldn't imagine how much worse that feeling would be if he knew what it's purpose was.

He knew without a doubt that there was no good reason for this thing to exist.

"Oh Ford," he groaned, "What did you get yourself into?"


	3. Chapter 3

"Go to sleep." Stan groaned, not for the first time. His eyes followed his twin as he paced across the length of the room. He was even twitchier than before, which Stan hadn't thought was possible.

By the time he had floated back to the ground floor, night had fallen. He hadn't thought he had been in the basement for that long, but who knows, maybe time passed differently now that he was dead.

He was beginning to realize he had much larger questions that needed answers then to be worried about trivial things like that.

The storm outside was still in full swing and he was once again glad that he no longer felt the cold.

Eventually he had wandered back through the house in search of Ford, and when he did, his already increased concern continued to mount.

It was late, yet Ford showed no signs of having any intention to rest. A cup of coffee was clutched in his hands, spilling dark droplets onto the wood as his hands trembled. A low mutter fell from his lips, too jumbled for Stan to make out what he was saying most of the time, apart from "can't sleep" and "he's watching me".

Did Ford finally realize he was here? It was one thing to accidentally ignore him, but to purposefully ignore him set his metaphorical blood boiling.

"Hey, you asshole!" He yelled, "You're the one who called me here. The least you could do is acknowledge me!"

He hovered in front of Ford, intending to block his path. If Ford was ignoring him, he was doing a damn good job. He didn't even so much as glance in his direction or flinch as he walked straight through him.

With a reserved sigh, Stan took up a seat at a nearby chair, where he found himself now, perhaps an hour later.

He had deduced that Ford was not in fact ignoring him. At some point, he had poured himself over a spread of notes, mumbling to himself.

His shoulders were drawn in tense around him, and every so often, his head would jerk to the side, staring off into the dim corners of the room as if he could see or hear something that Stan couldn't.

"Relax, Stanford." His twin coached himself, "You can't sleep. He's waiting for you there."

"Bro, come on, you're smarter than this," Stan chastised him, "You probably need sleep more than anything right now."

He could only imagine how long it's been since Ford last slept for more than a few minutes.

"Go to sleep." Stan groaned. That was how his mantra started. Even if Ford couldn't hear him, he hoped that saying it enough would somehow subconsciously influence his brother to sleep.

"Go to sleep."

He spotted a balled up sheet of notepaper on the floor beside a full waste bin. Floating to it, he focused on the paper ball.

After several attempts, his hands finally felt the ridges of the crumpled up ball. With some effort, he lifted the ball from the floor. Grunting, he tossed the ball in Ford's direction, but the projectile only made it maybe a foot away from him before pathetically falling to the ground.

Ford's head snapped around as the paper landed on the floor with a soft, barely audible sound.

"Who's there?" He snapped, bloodshot eyes darting frantically around the room.

Seeing his chance, Stan waved his arms, "Ford! It's me! It's Stanley!"

Ford's eyes swept around the room once more before he reluctantly turned back around.

"You're losing your mind, Stanford." His twin muttered to himself miserably.

"At least that makes two of us." Stan groaned, deflating in his seat. Just picking up the crumpled paper has sapped him of his energy again. Leaning over the table he sat at, he propped his elbows on the table and let his head sink into his hands.

"You're just as useless dead as you were when you were alive." Stan mumbled to himself miserably.

A coffee mug slid into his periphery as a six fingered hand deposited it onto the table. Lifting his gaze, he watched Ford sink into the chair opposite of him with a loud sigh.

Ford mirrored Stan as he propped his elbows on the table and let his head rest in his hands. Maybe the similarities in their movements even after ten long years, or maybe just the close proximity should have brought Stan some comfort but it did little to chase off the empty loneliness that festered in his chest.

Is this how he was going to be doomed to spend the rest of eternity? Ignored. Invisible. Silent. Useless. Forgotten.

It had only maybe been a day since he had died and the thought of spending another day, let alone eternity, like this was unbearable.

He couldn't even wrap his brain around the idea of eternity. Ford's lifetime would be but a blink of an eye in comparison to the long stretch of time to come after. And then what would he do?

Helplessness overwhelmed him, wrapping its icy tendrils around his heart and constricting.

"Get a grip on yourself, Stan." He pleaded to himself, fingers tangling in his hair as he let his head sink further into his hands. His shoulders hunched up, trying to make himself as small as possible. Distantly, he wished he could disappear.

"No." Stan firmly told himself, trying to shake the treacherous thought from his brain. Stan Pines didn't give up. He had a job to do.

Ford needed him. Whatever that damn machine in the basement was for, it certainly wasn't for anything good. The stress was obviously eating away at his twin, driving him mad.

Stan could deal with the impossible implications of eternity after he helped Ford.

With a breath, he forced the tendrils that had been gripping his heart back, replacing it with determination.

As he lifted his head, he was surprised to see that his twin had nodded off, slumped over the table.

"About time." Stan grumbled.

Think, Stan. You need a game plan.

First thing first, he needed to find a way to somehow communicate to his twin that he was here.

He was slowly getting the hang of his new ghost powers. Phasing through things was easy enough, but that wouldn't help him here. He needed to be able to move objects better.

At least he had figured out how to do so, in theory. The problem now was that he didn't have the strength to move anything for extended periods of time, not to mention he could only move objects if they were small and light.

He was also exhausted afterwards, as if he only had enough energy for one small burst before it faded away.

He'd just have to keep practicing. Hopefully with some time, he'd get stronger.

A movement across from him broke his train of thought. His twin lifted his head from the desk and looked at him.

Stan's eyes flickered to the side before glancing back at his twin. His gaze unnerved him— it was as if Ford was staring right at him with a weird grin on his lips.

"Well, well, well if it isn't Fez. You're looking a little spectral-ly; did ya die or something?" His twin gave a laugh.

Stan's jaw dropped as he blinked dumbly.

"You can se—"

"Of course I can see you!" Ford interrupted him, grin curling in a way that made Stan's lips ache just to see it.

Something wasn't right.

"Don't be fooled; I'm not Stanford. No, no." Ford waggled a finger at him, "I'm just wearing your brother's meat suit while he's not using it. The name's Bill Cipher."

Wearing his twins what—? Stan's eyes squinted at the man across from him.

"How do I know you're not actually Ford?" Stan asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well— I'd usually offer you the knowledge of the exact date and time of your death, but I can see that you already know that." His brother said with a laugh, "Instead, I'll just explain; I'm your brother's research partner, or muse. I'm like you; I don't have a body to use but good ol' six fingers here let's me borrow his while he's not using it."

"That still doesn't explain what you are." Stan pointed out.

Bill laughed, "Boy, you sure are sharper than Fordsy gives you credit for. That's where things get tricky. You see, your kind doesn't have a word for what I am. I'm beyond anything most mortals have comprehension of, but I can see you and your brother aren't like most mortals."

Stan cocked an eyebrow at him.

"I'm a being of pure energy. Kinda like you, but with way cooler powers. Like you, I don't have a body of my own in this dimension, which is why Fordsy lets me borrow his."

"So what, I'm supposed to believe that you're just some weird super ghost that's here just to help my brother out of the kindness of your heart?" Stan asked, skepticism bleeding into his tone.

"Please, I don't have a heart. And if I did, I'd need like, ten." Bill laughed, "But no, Ford's helping me out. We have the same goal, you see. Your brother over here has been researching the weird things in this little town and I have the key to all of his questions. That machine you saw downstairs is the answer, and he's helping me out by getting that machine working."

A chill ran down Stan's back, "How did you—"

"Know that I saw you?" Bill cut him off with a cocked eyebrow. Stan slowly nodded, "I already told you; I'm like you. I can see you, but you can't see me. Not unless I have a vessel."

Bill leaned over the table, the ever-present grin on his lips, "It's frustrating, isn't it?"

"What?" Stan asked, leaning away ever so slightly. Seeing that grin unnerved him. It was almost inhuman.

"To be invisible, duh!" Bill explained, "To be right in front of someone and for them to not see you. I can help you though."

"You can?" Stan asked. He tried to stuff down the hope he felt rising in his gut. Something about this wasn't quite right.

"Sure I can! I can make it so that Ford can see you! That's what you want, right? To not be invisible anymore?"

Stan reluctantly nodded.

Of course that's what he wanted. But if he had learned anything over the last decade, it was that if a deal was probably too good to be true, it probably wasn't.

"What's in it for you?" Stan asked.

"I need Fordsy here to finish that machine, but you know how fragile these flesh sacks are. I just need you to help Ford and get him well enough so he can get back to work. Easy, right?"

Too easy, in fact.

"If you don't even have a body, how do I know you can actually get me one?" Stan asked skeptically.

Bill laughed again, "I have my ways, Fez. So what, do we have a deal?"

A six fingered hand reached across the table. That same grin was still on Ford's lips.

"No." The answer left Stan's lips without needing to think.

"No?" Bill said, grin finally beginning to slip, "What do you mean 'no'? You want to help your brother, don't you?"

Stan leaned back into the seat, away from the thing sitting across from him. "Well, yeah," he said, "But I know a con man when I see one. Thanks, but no thanks. I'll find a way to help Ford on my own."

Six fingers balled into a fist and slowly inched back to the edge of the table. Bill's eyes dangerously narrowed at him and for the first time, Stan noticed the yellow tint to his eyes, as well as his slitted pupils.

"Huh, and here I thought you were smarter than that."

Stan laughed coldly, "Sorry to disappoint, but I may not be as smart as my twin, but I'm smart enough to know not to make a bad deal."

Anger flashed in Bill's eyes for a brief second before it tapered away. "Fine. But think on this, Stanley Pines. You're going to grow tired of being ignored. When you do, I'll be here to make a deal."

Stan barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes, "Ford's ignored me for the last ten years. I'm used to it. You can take your deal and shove it, 'cause I'm not interested."

Two pairs of six fingered hands slammed into the table. "You really are as dumb as Ford thinks. I thought six fingers was wrong about you, but I can see he was right."

Ok, ouch. It shouldn't come as a surprise that Ford thought he was dumb, but to hear it be confirmed hurt.

Bill hissed as he leaned back into the chair. "He's waking." He growled quietly. "Just remember, I'll be watching you, fez. I'll make sure you regret not taking my offer."

"Doubt it."

Ford's eyes shut as his head slumped forward. Stan was silent as he watched, eyes wide. A soft groan sounded a few moments later as Ford blinked his eyes open.

He looked even more tired than before, Stan noticed sympathetically. His twin ground a fist into his eye with another groan.

As his hand came away, it was spotted with blood. Both twins eyed the offensive scarlet smear with wide eyes.

Blood slowly trickled from the corner of Ford's eyes.

"Shit!" Ford hissed, abruptly standing from the table, "He was here."

His twin dashed off to another room with a hand pressed over his eye. Stan quickly floated after him. He watched as Ford burst into the bathroom, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the sink.

Stan hovered behind his twin as Ford stared into the mirror with an expression of horror.

Distantly, Stan realized that he couldn't see his own reflection in the mirror.

Ford swiped a trembling hand across his eye, smearing the blood across his face.

Stan reached out, not surprised as his hand passed through Ford's shoulder.

His twin shivered.

"Just hold on, Ford," Stan murmured to his twin's reflection, "We'll figure this out."


End file.
